The Alpine Obituary Page 7

  “The college,” Scott suggested. It was hardly a surprise, since I figured his mind was there much of the time. “Unlike the other schools, they don’t start fall quarter until the end of the month.”

  “We included them in the Back to School edition,” Leo pointed out.

  The newsroom went silent until Ginny came in with the mail. “What’s wrong?” she asked, looking alarmed. “Did something awful happen?”

  Leo waved a dismissive hand. “No. We’re thinking. It’s done best when not talking. You got any ideas for a new kind of special edition?”

  Ginny handed Vida her mail. Our House & Home editor was always first on the delivery list.

  “Autumn,” Ginny said, moving to Leo’s desk. “What about things people do in the fall?”

  “How many pictures of leaf raking can Scott take?” Leo asked dryly.

  Ginny, whose scarcity of imagination is rivaled only by her lack of a sense of humor, frowned at Leo. “People do other things. Like prune. Oh—and dig up bulbs and tubers that won’t winter in this climate.”

  No one said anything for almost a minute. It was Vida who finally spoke up: “That’s not really a bad idea, Ginny. Leo could get large ads from Harvey’s Hardware and Mountain View Gardens and some of the other stores that provide plants and tools and such.”

  Scott was fingering his chin. “How about a tie-in with the environment? Energy conservation, too. Preparing your house for winter and all that.”

  “Well . . .” Leo paused to light a cigarette while Vida, as usual, stared him down. “That does have some possibilities. Let me think about it. Thanks, Ginny.”

  “I like it,” I said. “Fall officially starts September twentieth.” I looked at Leo. “Do we have enough time to pull it together for the edition on the thirteenth?”

  “I’ll see,” Leo replied, his weathered face showing no expression.

  “Do that,” I said as a spur. I had the feeling that despite his polite words to Ginny, he wasn’t entirely sold on the project.

  Half an hour later, Vida was off to attend the Froland funeral. I worked on a list of possible features for the proposed autumn edition. The more I thought about Ginny’s idea, the better I liked it. The broadness of scope meant that there were plenty of advertisers to tap. Home improvement. Yard work. Energy. Fashion. Food. “An Alpine Autumn.” That sounded good to me.

  By noon, I was so pleased with the concept that instead of eating in, I decided to call Milo and see if he wanted to meet me for lunch at the Venison Inn. I was told, however, that the sheriff wasn’t in. Feeling slightly deflated, I walked down Front Street to the restaurant. There I encountered a CLOSED sign on the door and a handwritten message taped to the glass.

  THE VENISON INN WILL BE CLOSED BEGINNING FRIDAY, SEPT. EIGHTH, UNTIL MONDAY, SEPT. EIGHTEENTH, IN MEMORY OF JOHN AUGUSTUS (JACK) FROLAND.

  I’d forgotten about the closure. Annoyed, I started to cross the street to the Burger Barn but stopped just short of the curb. It was twelve-ten, about the time that Jack Froland’s funeral would be over. Vida would probably go to the cemetery. I could meet her there and see if she wanted to go to lunch. Ordinarily, Vida wouldn’t miss a post-funeral get-together, but I figured that after the fracas the previous night, any socializing at the Froland home would be cancelled.

  I drove down Front Street, all the way to Highway 187, or the Icicle Creek Road as it was unofficially known. Smoke still hung in the air, and the sky was overcast. The temperature was close to seventy degrees, which wasn’t all that warm, yet the hazy skies spread an oppressive air over the town. Perhaps it was my imagination. I hadn’t attended a burial since Tom’s, which had been held not in Alpine but in San Francisco, where he had lived for years with his family.

  “Damn!” I said aloud as the steep road curved ahead of me. Can I do this?

  “You damned well better,” said a crackling voice inside me. It sounded like Ben. I kept driving and finally entered through the cemetery’s open iron gates.

  It wasn’t hard to find the Froland mourners. The cemetery is built on hilly ground. The road at the entrance dips down, so I slowed enough to spot the line of cars pulled up on the verge and the cluster of people under a green canopy.

  I parked behind the last car. To my left I saw the Runkel monument, a solid granite monolith that marked the graves of Rufus Runkel and several other family members, including Vida’s late husband, Ernest. She had told me that she would be buried beside Ernest and that the headstone was already in place. She’d bought it when Ernest died over twenty years ago.

  “It was such a bargain,” she’d said. “I couldn’t turn it down.”

  I’d never looked closely at the Runkel family plot. I couldn’t bear to see Vida’s name there, even though in my lighter moments, I’d wondered if she’d have a periscope installed with her so that she could keep track of the local happenings even from the grave.

  At least two dozen cars were parked alongside the road. I trudged across the grass, which showed ominous patches of brown, a reminder of our tinder-dry surroundings. As always, I noticed the strange markers that looked like sawed-off tree trunks. I’d finally done some research and written a feature about them, explaining that they were a favored cemetery item from the turn of the last century and represented the Tree of Life. They were often the choice of people who had worked in the timber industry, though their popularity wasn’t exclusive to job or class, and they had been sold through the Sears Roebuck catalogs.

  To my surprise, June Froland was at the graveside, seated in a sturdy chair. Her chin rested on her bosom and her hands were slack in her lap. I wondered if she was so medicated that she’d fallen asleep.

  Pastor Nielsen was praying over the pale blue casket as I sidled up to my House & Home editor.

  “Well,” she said in her stage whisper, “you came. Now why is that?”

  “Lunch,” I said under my breath. “Do you want to eat with me after this is over?”

  “Oh, dear,” Vida replied. “I brought lunch because I heard there’s no post-burial function. June barely made it to the funeral. I understand she’s heavily sedated.”

  As the casket was being lowered into the ground, several people turned our way. Vida’s sister-in-law Mary Lou Hinshaw gave us a dirty look and put a finger to her lips in a shushing gesture.

  “Nitwit,” Vida breathed.

  Al Driggers handed Max a shovel. The son was about to put the symbolic dirt on his father’s casket when a siren cut through the air, startling us all.

  Everyone turned to the road where Milo Dodge’s Grand Cherokee was coming to a stop in front of the hearse. The siren, which the sheriff—in an uncharacteristic flight of fancy—had ordered through Harvey’s Hardware, was the wah-woo-wah-wah sound of the British police. Milo had sent for it not long after we broke up. I figured it was the masculine equivalent of the feminine change of hair color following a broken romance.

  Max stood stiffly with the shovel in his hand. June’s head slowly lifted. Pastor Nielsen looked annoyed. Fred and Opal Iverson, standing with several other kinfolk, eyed the sheriff with curiosity. Only Al Driggers—ever the professional— showed no emotion whatsoever.

  “Hold it!” Milo shouted, loping awkwardly to the grave site. He winced as the widow Froland scowled at him. “Sorry, June, sorry, folks.” The sheriff removed his regulation hat. For at least ten seconds, he shifted from one foot to the other, looking like a student caught in class without an answer.

  Finally, turning to Al, Milo spoke. “I hate to tell you this, but you’ve got to take Jack out of the box.”

  July 1916

  The mill at the Alpine Lumber Company was running full-bore. Harriet Clemans could smell the smoke from the sawdust burner a hundred yards away. It was a sweet, heady aroma, but sometimes it made her eyes water. Looking to her right and then to her left to make sure that no trains were approaching, Harriet crossed the tracks to the three-story wooden building that housed the general store, the social hall, and the
community center.

  Her husband, Carl, was just coming down the wooden steps. “Your trunks are here,” he said, taking his wife by the hand and leading her past the flower bed next to the building where dahlias grew almost as tall as the couple. “Isn’t it awfully soon to start packing?”

  Harriet, a tall woman with a patrician profile, shook her head. “There’s so much to do before the girls and I leave for Iowa at the end of August. We have to spend almost a week shopping in Seattle.” She stopped as she saw the stricken expression on Carl’s face. “Oh, you’re being silly! You won’t miss us that much. And you know perfectly well that it’s time for the older girls to start college.”

  Carl’s smile was wistful. “And you want to finish your degree.”

  “Of course.” Harriet lifted her chin. “I’ve always wanted to do that. It was my goal before we married.”

  Carl nodded slowly. “I know. I admire you for it.” He paused as Ruby Siegel came out of the company store. Carl tipped his hat, and Harriet smiled.

  “I’m running out of scrip already this month,” Ruby declared, juggling her parcels. She was a petite redhead with a mischievous twinkle in her green eyes. “Louie says I’m a poor manager.”

  “You have three growing boys,” Carl pointed out. “They must eat you out of house and home.”

  “They do,” Ruby admitted. “Louie’s not one to talk. He’s got a big appetite, too.” She pu fed out her cheeks in an imitation of her husband’s round face. “Oink, oink.”

  Heedless of her long skirts, which brushed the dirty ground by the railroad tracks, Ruby headed for home.

  “What were we saying?” Carl asked, looking a bit befuddled.

  “That you won’t miss us,” Harriet replied in a dry tone.

  “Yes, I will,” he asserted. “I’ll miss you especially.”

  Harriet’s eyes were following Ruby down the tracks. “No, you won’t, Carl. I’m sure you’ll find ways to keep occupied.”

  Chapter Five

  AL DRIGGERS LOST his customary composure. His jaw dropped and he seemed as speechless as Milo had been a moment earlier. It was Max Froland who broke the silence, moving slowly toward the sheriff.

  “I don’t understand,” he said simply.

  Holding his hat to his chest, Milo grimaced. “We got wind of foul play regarding your dad’s death, Max. We have to do an autopsy.”

  “No!” Max bridled at the sheriff’s words.

  June let out a little shriek. Her head slumped forward and the white rose she’d held her lap tumbled onto the ground.

  Vida had stomped up to Milo. I felt obliged to follow. “How did you hear about the possibility of foul play?” Vida demanded.

  Milo put his hat back on and scowled at Vida. “It’s all over town after last night. The phone’s been ringing off the hook.”

  “Rumors!” Vida breathed. “It’s nonsense, Milo.”

  “Could be,” the sheriff admitted. “But we still have to look into it.” He signaled for Al to start putting the coffin back in the hearse. “Let’s go, let’s move.”

  Fred Iverson marched up to Milo. “This is stupid. Since when did you start listening to the rantings of a crazy woman?”

  “How do I know if your Aunt June’s crazy?” Milo retorted. “I’m just doing my job.”

  Fred’s brother, Rodney, came to stand by his kinsman. Both men were totally bald, though barely into middle age. “Do you mean we have to go through this whole damned thing again?”

  I could tell by the tightening of his jawline that Milo was growing impatient. “That’s up to you. When the autopsy’s finished, you can have Jack cremated and save yourself a trip to the cemetery.”

  “But,” put in Opal, who had joined her husband, Fred, “June’s paid for the plot. We’ll have to come for the burial.”

  “Easy for you to say,” growled Rodney. “You live here. I have to come all the way from Tacoma.”

  “What’s the argument?” Jack Iverson demanded, pushing his younger kinsmen aside. “Let Dodge do what he has to do. Even if June’s cracked like an egg, the sheriff has to follow the rules.”

  Fred, Rodney, and Opal all deferred to the older man. Maybe it was because he still had some hair; maybe it was because he was Jack Froland’s namesake. In any event, the threesome backed down but muttered among themselves.

  “Drat!” Vida exclaimed. “I should have brought my camera. Do you have one in your car, Emma?”

  As the worst photographer in Skykomish County, I shook my head. Rarely did I bring a camera with me. It was pointless. The photos either didn’t turn out or I ended up with pictures of my feet.

  Vida gave a fierce shake of her head, which was covered in funeral mourning, anchored by a satin turban featuring a matching black rose. “That’s what I get for having good taste and being thoughtful. Not being in the habit of taking graveside photos, I don’t have my camera when the burial turns into a news event.”

  “Maybe Scott can take a picture of the empty grave site,” I suggested as the coffin was rolled away to the hearse.

  Vida didn’t respond. Instead, she started toward her car. “I’ll see you at the office,” she shouted before getting into the driver’s seat.

  My next stop was lunch. Dutifully waiting for the hearse, the family funeral car, the rest of the mourners, and Milo’s Grand Cherokee to pull out, I ended up last in the slow-moving line. It took ten minutes to reach my usual parking spot in front of the Advocate, and another thirty seconds to dash across the street to the Burger Barn.

  I ordered a burger, fries, and vanilla malt to go, then stood by the takeout counter surveying the other diners. They were a familiar sight, from Mayor Baugh to Deputy Sam Heppner. Not wanting to get waylaid, I avoided eye contact with all of them. The mayor, however, was not to be ignored. He rose from his booth in the middle of the restaurant and headed in my direction.

  “I’ve had a brainstorm, Emma,” he announced, not forgetting to smile and nod at everyone within his line of sight. “I’ve had a look at those new portraits Buddy took of me, and a mighty fine job he did. It struck me as a good idea to run the official one—I haven’t made up my mind yet, the little woman hasn’t seen them—on the front page of the Advocate.”

  Fuzzy occasionally managed to catch me off-guard, but not this time. “Gosh,” I said, hoping to sound genuinely regretful, “we can’t do it in the next edition. We’ve got those dramatic forest fire pictures.”

  “Oh.” The mayor looked disappointed but not defeated. Obviously, he was wrestling in his mind between Fuzzy vs. fire. “What about the week after next?”

  “It’s impossible to predict what could be front page news by then,” I temporized.

  “Hmm.” Fuzzy shot me a quizzical glance. “You haven’t had much in the way of big stories lately. No offense, but the paper seems kind of . . . mundane.”

  “That’s true,” I admitted, then challenged the mayor on the very ground he’d been trodding. “What would be the news peg with your picture?”

  Fuzzy took umbrage. “Isn’t the mayor always news? That is, I’ve a twenty-four-hour-a-day job keeping this fine city running.”

  Since Mayor Baugh’s most recent contribution to Alpine’s welfare had been conserving water by turning off the sprinklers in both of the town’s parks and thus creating a fire hazard of its own, I wasn’t about to reel from his accomplishments.

  “Have you some big plans?” I inquired innocently.

  “I’ve always got big plans,” Fuzzy replied with a smug smile. “But you know how it is, Emma—between trying to convince the city council and coordinate with the county commissioners, it’s like pulling teeth. The wheels of progress turn slowly in a town like Alpine.”

  I had visions of running Fuzzy’s mayor’s new portrait with the cutline, WHEELS OF PROGRESS AND MAYOR’S BRAIN MOVE AT SNAIL’S PACE: ALPINE STALLED SINCE 1988.

  Back at Fuzzy’s booth, his companions, Henry Bardeen, manager of the ski lodge, and Deputy Mayor Richie Magruder,
were on their feet.

  I pointed out that fact to Fuzzy. “They’re leaving without you. Let me know when Irene decides which photo she likes best,” I added, wondering how Mrs. Baugh put up with Fuzzy on a daily basis. But then again, she hadn’t for many years. The Baughs had married young in Louisiana, divorced not long after their arrival in Alpine, and remarried just before Fuzzy’s first electoral campaign. I figured Irene could only stand Fuzzy for fifteen-year stretches at a time.

  The mayor gave me his bogus politician’s smile and hurried off to join his buddies. I was breathing a sigh of relief when Marsha Foster-Klein came through the door a moment later and spotted me at the takeout counter. The judge zeroed in like a mosquito going for a bare leg.

  “Well?” Marsha said without preamble. “What have you found out so far?”

  I tried not to look defensive. “We’re still working on it.”

  “Hey—it’s Friday,” Marsha said, her voice, if not her disposition, improved since I’d last spoken with her. “We’re running out of time.”

  “Marsha,” I began as my order was called, “time is what this takes. It’d help if you had some inkling of what the letter writer was talking about.”

  Fretfully, Marsha rubbed at her forehead. “I don’t, dammit.” She saw me turn to pick up the white bag with the red barn logo. “You’re not eating here?”

  “No,” I replied. “Unless you want to join me and have a think tank session.”

  The judge glanced at her watch. “Court’s recessed until two. I have a short meeting before that. It’s just after twelve-thirty. Let’s sit.”

  With some reluctance on my part, we headed for a booth that had just been vacated by Harvey Adcock of Harvey’s Hardware and the Bank of Alpine’s Stilts Cederberg. Not only was Vida expecting me at the office, but she would also be miffed at being left out.

  I asked Marsha if my House & Home editor could join us.

  “Why not?” Marsha retorted. “She’s Mrs. Know-It-All, isn’t she?”